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Editor's ViewpointMeditations Of A Minnesota Mossback |
From Charlotte To Shelob ... To The Bottom Of The Sink
Be you a liberal, conservative, or something in between, there is one thing we all have in common.
We’re all afraid of something.
Having never been able to stay up late enough to catch David Letterman, I’ve missed out on a lot of “Top Ten” lists, but the top ten phobias that afflict the human race are pretty universal.
Chances are, one of them knows right where you live.
When I was very young, the fear of speaking in public left me quaking in my saddle shoes. I couldn’t eat breakfast and often developed flu-like symptoms just visualizing myself giving my book report in front of my peers. Some reportedly fear this particular version of Social Phobia (No. 2 on the list) more than death.
Daughter No. 1 lays claim to several phobias, including a fear of flying (Aerophobia, No. 3 on the list). Although, as I type this column, she is actually in the air somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, headed home to Seattle. (She probably figures it’s better to suffer on the plane than to swim.)
When our eldest was much younger, we couldn’t get her to climb the Lake Itasca fire tower or the stairs in Split Rock Lighthouse. No, she would tough it out on the bottom step with her father and watch the rest her younger siblings climb to dizzying heights. The fear of heights (Acrophobia, No. 6 on the list) must be related to the fear of flying. Makes sense!
The youngest son has never vocalized this, but he probably has Claustrophobia (the fear of small, confined spaces—No. 5). At least, he should. His older brother used to lock him in the closet regularly. I’d be surprised if it hadn’t had some long-lasting effects.
Ever since my sister and her family showed up for a visit a few years back, my husband has suffered from Emetophobia (No. 7). The relatives brought a nasty stomach flu; in the collective dash to the bathroom, one of the cousins availed himself of my dearest’s favorite walking shoes. My husband hasn’t been the same since. Neither have the shoes.
My dog, Halley, suffers from the fear of thunderstorms—Brontophobia (No. 9—and no, this is not the fear of dinosaurs or Jurassic Park).
But the Number One Phobia (drumroll, please!) is Arachnophobia - the fear of spiders. Half of women and 10 percent of men harbor a fear of spiders, from Charlotte to Shelob. Okay, that would be Daughter No. 2. It might have something to do with the black plastic Halloween spiders her younger brothers used to tuck under her sheets: blood-curdling screams could be heard all over the neighborhood.
When my 22-year-old calls me wailing on her cell phone, it doesn’t do one bit of good to say, “Dear, you must weigh five billion times more than that tiny eight-legged thing. Step on it if you must!” No, I generally advise her to stand on a stool and wait until somebody else comes along—or the spider decides to leave. It’s difficult to kill a spider for your daughter in San Francisco when you’re in Hugo.
But Son No. 1 doesn’t seem to harbor a fear of anything on that list. This newly emancipated college junior who just this week moved into a rented house in Dinkytown with five other organizationally challenged males doesn’t experience Agoraphobia (No. 4, the avoidance of any place where escape might be difficult in the event of developing sudden, panic-like symptoms), Carcinophobia (No. 8, even though he’s the least likely to eat his cancer-fighting vegetables), or Necrophobia (No. 10—though the fear of dead things would seem natural, considering the state of his bedroom).
No, the thing that Son No. 1 is most afraid of is the stuff that collects at the bottom of the kitchen sink. Ask him to clean it out and he will turn pale, his eyes will roll back in his head and he will begin to stutter.
I have been waiting for two decades for that kid to move into his own place just to watch him have to clean out the Top Ramen noodles, soggy Cheerios and other delicacies that he so unconsciously—and then deliberately—leaves in my sink strainer after rinsing his dishes.
In fact, I was rubbing my palms together in anticipation of this long-awaited event when my husband and I dropped by “Animal House” last weekend with our house-warming gift. (A fire extinguisher, of course—what else do you give six young males who will soon attempt to deep-fat-fry onion rings for the very first time?)
But I was foiled again—No. 1 Son and his buddies announced that they have decided to use paper plates for the entire school year.
“No dishes!” my son said brightly. “And paper plates are biodegradable!”
I don’t have the heart to tell him that if he can eat Ramen off a paper plate, I want pictures.
He’ll figure it out.